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“And that’s why I’m here. Someone needs to care for Adrian while you run the team. What?” Mumsy blinks her giant blue eyes, which are framed with fluffy fake lashes. “Don’t make that face.”
She’s one of those people who can somehow drink a cup of brown liquid while wearing light-colored clothing and not spill a drop. Unlike me, who has a fresh blob of green toothpaste on my dress. Which I wore yesterday.
Should’ve gone home last night. Should’ve never had dinner with Max. Maybe if I’d listened to my instincts, I could’ve slept in my own bed and not tossed and turned last night, thinking about Papa—and Max. I also spent a long hour or two beating myself up about how I snapped at the photographers too. Can’t wait to see that play out on Page Six in theNew York Post.
Ugh, Max. A memory of his intense gaze staring into my soul last night comes to mind, and a pleasurable shiver goes through me. I clear my throat nervously.
“I’m worried about Papa. And I don’t know if I’m the best person for the team.”
“Oh,pfft. How hard can it be? The guys know what to do. You need to show up at some races, give some interviews, stand around with headphones on, and stare at monitors. You’re overqualified, in my opinion.” Mum’s always been dismissive of the sport, probably because it was the one thing that robbed Papa’s attention from her.
I don’t respond because I’m absorbed in my thoughts. It hits me anew that I almost kissed Max last night in my discombobulated, emotional state.
“Lily? What is it? Why do you look like someone took away your Christmas? Don’t worry about your father. He’s going to be fine. We’ll talk with the doctor. And don’t start with the imposter syndrome about running the team. You know that half those male fools on the team would gladly trade places with you, and they don’t have the experience or knowledge you do.”
“Yeah,” I mutter.
“Then what’s the problem . . . oh. Oh. I know what your issue is.” Mum’s concerned expression morphs into a smirk.
I give her a side-eye. “I have no issue. Let’s get to the hospital.”
“Max Becker.”
It’s difficult not to react, but I manage. “This has nothing to do with Max.”
“You’re fibbing. You’re worried about working with him.”
Mum was the only other person besides Anh I’d told about Max seven years ago. Of course, Mum had heard the rumors, but only she and Anh knew the truth of how I felt. She swore she wouldn’t tell Papa the gory details, because he was already angry enough at the little he did know. To my knowledge, she never said a word. She knows everything, from how we started to why we broke up. And since we’re close, almost more like sisters than mother and daughter, she can read me like a book.
“Mum.” My voice comes out in a strangled groan. “We had dinner last night. It was torture. Tor. Ture.”
She clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “That’s not going to be simple. The team will be, but Max won’t.”
“No. It’s not easy. Especially since he’s being nice and kind and I don’t know. Decent. Plus, he’s still really hot.” I sniffle a little for emphasis. “Last night we had dinner and were ambushed by photographers in the lobby. I almost melted down. I can only imagine what’s in the tabloids today.”
“Oh, I’ve already seen. Basically a lot of speculation about you and Max.”
“What? You saw that? Why didn’t you tell me? What did the papers say? I couldn’t even look online this morning.”
“Yeah, it’s the usual. There’s also some gossip about your father being on death’s door. And you allegedly ‘lashed out.’”
“Pfft. There’s no allegedly. I did lash out. You know how I hate those sudden press scrums.”
“This is one of those situations where you’re going to have to put your feelings aside, Lily. Block out all the noise and static and focus on being your incredible self.”
I stare at her with one squinted eye. She seems to think that an uplifting Instagram meme sentiment will somehow save me from the emotional hell I’m stepping into.
“I seem to always put my feelings aside. That’s the trouble. I’m finding it harder and harder to do.”
“Such is the way of life for women in our world.”
“Well, not you,” I say, almost in an accusing tone.
“Not me, not now. Now that I’m sixty, I have, as the kids say, zero fucks to give. That’s why I started my late-in-life career as an influencer. I stopped caring about what other people think. But trust me, when I was your age, I shoved all those emotions down. For my job, then for your father, and for you.”
I sense that Mum’s ramping up for a philosophical lecture, which is the last thing I need this morning. Anyway, I know all this about her and my father. Which is probably one of the top reasons why I was reluctant to build a life with Max—because racing would always get in the way. “Let’s table this discussion until we can do it over drinks. We’ve got to get to the hospital.”
“Okay, okay. But I want you to calm down and breathe. Center yourself.” She shuts her eyes and pinches her thumb and forefinger together.
